An Adele Introspective
by Sadie Woods
Summary: The little French girl at Thornfield Manor knows more than people give her credit for.


Disclaimer: Charlotte Bronte is the mind behind Jane Eyre, so give her the props.

A/N: This may sound silly, but my dream from the very moment I read Jane Eyre was to have an opportunity to study it in a class-room setting. I have read it over twelve times over the years; once not even setting it down before flipping back to the first page, and every time I read it I have a slightly different interpretation. It truly is the quintessential love story, and the only such love story that I will actually read willingly and love it more each time. How could you not? Jane herself is such a strong female character, so very different from every other female lead character these days. The book itself has such subtle feminist undertones and speaks of happy endings even while having realistic situations thrust onto the characters. Of all the characters, I would have been the first one to tell you I had no idea I'd ever write about Adele. I loved the girl in the book, but she was far from my favorite character. Still, upon my re-reading for AP English Literature class; I wondered "How could someone live in such a house and not notice that something was wrong? Adele may not be the best in her schoolwork; but she surely has a child's curiosity about her situation. I wonder if she knows more than she's letting on..." Thus, this story was spawned. I originally intended it as flash fiction, but once again it got away from me and this was submitted as a stream of consciousness piece. I may not have had the full scale discussion and detailed look at the book that I desired, but the very opportunity to both read the book and work with it independently still pleases me immensely.

Dedication: To my wonderful AP teacher, who deserves some honor for having a few talks with me concerning the book, and to my mother; who gave the book to me to read at the age of 10. Thank you. 

An Adele Introspective 

I am not nearly as ignorant as those around me seem to think. I never was. I am a bit hyperactive some days, it is true, and perhaps I lapse into my native tongue too much to make it comfortable for my English companions; but that doesn't mean that I am stupid or anything. I can speak English as well as anyone here. I think that I could hold a proper conversation with the Queen herself if given the opportunity. After all the time I've spent in this country, it would be a stretch indeed to propose that I am stuck in my "French ways." Yes, I do speak French much more than English, but I grew up in France. France is a beautiful land with sophisticated people and culture. France is my home. Paris is elegant, and the people there speak of art as though it were a living entity. What does England hold for me? What does the English language have that appeals to my nature? England is a cold place. The wind is always blowing and the days that it rains far outnumber the days that don't. The English language is too simple. In France, the words flow like water through a stream, gentle and unobtrusive. English is a language that must be forced out of ones mouth, like some thing unsavory that can't be kept down. When you speak French, it is like you are singing a song that must be shared with the world. English is pronounced like German; guttural and spoken as though you are having a bad cold.

Please do not misunderstand me. There are some good things about England. I never really knew what family was until I came to this country. As wonderful as France was to me, Mama wasn't ever any kind of a mother to me. Friends would always tell me of home cooked meals and warm homes filled with laughter and love. I remember a feeling a jealousy at the words, but I would always hide it with exclamations of how many presents Mama had gotten me that week and how beautiful my new dresses were. All the presents in the world can't make up for missing affection.

Mama wasn't happy after Monsieur Rochester left. She brought more and more friends home at night, and by this time I was fully aware of their reason for being there. I am no longer ignorant in the ways of adults. Mama wouldn't feed me sometimes, but would occasionally toss a stuffed toy of some sort my way to distract me. Some days, she wouldn't come home. She would yell a lot, and order me to practice my dancing and singing. I tried my best, but she was never happy. One day, she gave me a last sign of affection; a kiss on the cheek, and never returned home from wherever she went. I know she left with a man, though I would be quite surprised if they are still together now. After all the attention and gifts Monsieur Rochester gave her, no other man could quite compare in any way except for physical attractiveness.

It was a few years after that when Monsieur Rochester reappeared. He says he rescued me from the "slime and mud of Paris", but I think that he was just trying to find some innocence to cling to. I look a lot like my mother, which I think saddens him sometimes, but I try to act like his child even if we both know we hold no blood relations. It's a shame in a way. If only he were my Pere, my Poppa, perhaps we could both find some modicum of familial happiness. As it is, he brought me to England just to disappear off into the wilds of Britain so we don't often see each other. If he would maybe he could see that taking me from Paris just to leave me in the haunted halls of Thornfield wouldn't be much of an improvement.

As I said, I am not as ignorant as I look. I hear the moans from upstairs, the distant cackles of some specter, sight unseen. I hear whispers from the servants of a mad woman being cared for by a drunken servant. I'm not sure whether to believe it or not. I am more apt to believe in evil spirits for I know they can't harm me. If I were to believe in this mad woman I would live in fear. No, I will not believe the chatters of obviously under-worked servants. I was brought here to be kept safe, not to be another inmate of these windy moors.

It's not all that bad anyway. I do have Sophie, and she keeps me good company. She is more of a mother to me than Momma, but not quite so clever. Sophie never seems to catch on that even though I am so young; I have seen enough of the world to know it as the adults do. My new governess is smarter than Sophie. I think she believes I am the typical French brat, undisciplined and overactive. Unlike Sophie though, she teaches me anyway and treats me as a peer instead of a mere child. I love Mademoiselle. She is young, like me, and I can tell that she's lived through hard times. She has my eyes; lonely, but aware and very much alive. I catch her listening to the low laughter from upstairs and she always has a queer look upon her face, and I wonder why the servants who so eagerly gossip amongst themselves about it won't share with her the secret in the attic.

She is so much like a spirit herself. Pale and undernourished, thin and not a bit pretty. However, Mademoiselle is kind to me. That is one thing that is a good change from Paris to Thornfield. Looks in Paris are everything. In a way, they are all over the world. In Paris though, beyond the glitter and gold are hollow minds and heartless souls who serve no purpose but to look pretty and keep their mouths shut. In England, from what I've seen of it, it is the same way, but Thornfield is separate from both.

I see Mademoiselle's eyes shift from her lesson to the window. I know who she is looking for. Monsieur Rochester brings the embers behind her eyes to full on flames and when they are together I can see that tell all reaction of a blush that graces her features when they talk. When Mademoiselle smiles like that, the true difference between Parisian beauty and her beauty are on par, and because her eyes are never hollow she is even better. I know Monsieur fell for my Momma's beauty, but if he could have seen the look of her eyes and compared them to Mademoiselle, surely he would pick Mademoiselle.

What Mademoiselle doesn't know is that every time she meets up with Monsieur Rochester the corner of his mouth ticks upward in the ghost of a smile. He looks at her the same way all of Momma's friends looked at her. I think he's learned from the past. With Momma, I'm sure his eyes would focus on her hair or her lips or her clothes. That's what all of Momma's friends would do with her. With Mademoiselle Eyre though, his eyes connect with hers. Outer beauty can fool the eyes, but if you connect mind to mind the connection will bond and actually last.

At least, I hope it will. I know the ways of adults. They will pretend not to notice each other, but I will see their eyes drift towards each other and soon their bodies will follow like they were being tugged by an invisible force. Monsieur Rochester will ask Mademoiselle Eyre to marry him. I am sure. I know Mademoiselle will accept, and then we will go somewhere away from Thornfield. Monsieur surely will not want his wife in the same house as that spirit, and I know Mademoiselle will want me along. It's only a matter of time before then. Mademoiselle will continue to teach me and I will be a good older sister to their children. I know this. No longer will I be haunted by that cackle and no longer will I remember the lonely nights in Paris. I will have a Momma again, this time a good one who loves me.

I hear footsteps upstairs at night and Grace Poole's snores remind me that it is not her causing the noises. The light from a candle passes my door, not even stilling a step. It's just a spirit Adele. Spirits can't harm anyone. Even so, I worry. Surely I don't believe the tales of a forgotten lunatic, surely my eyes are playing tricks on me. Yet, when the pitter-patter of feet on the cold wooden floor continues away from the nursery towards the other side of the house, I breathe a sigh of relief. No ghost shall visit me tonight.

If Monsieur is as intelligent as I believe he is, surely he will ask Mademoiselle to marry him soon. She may not be beautiful, but she has a roaming spirit and if he does not provide a reason to stay she shall be carried off by the wind to some far away land with new experiences and form a life so separate from ours that there shall be no hope of sewing them back together. I just hope that he won't do something foolish like trying to incite jealousy, for men are wont to do such silly things and oftentimes simply can't fathom why women are offended by the toying of their emotions. Still, based on what I can observe of Mademoiselle's behavior, perhaps she could look past it if he were to at least be honest about everything afterward. It really is a pity that adults always do everything the hard way. Who knows? Maybe if a little joy were to be brought into Thornfield the despair that seems to pervade the place would ebb and the ghost would have no reason to lurk here anymore.

At any rate, classes start early tomorrow. The footsteps of the spirit have long since padded away into whatever abyss it dwells in during the day. I am not afraid of ghosts and they cannot hurt me if I do not believe they can hurt me. Let the servants believe what they will. I have read before that many old homes are haunted and this is no different. Monsieur and Mademoiselle will do what they want to regardless of anything I tell them and it really isn't my problem anyway. I just hope Monsieur Rochester will try going about it the French way for once, with romantic overtures, instead of the English way of tricking the object of his affection. Either way though, I think Mademoiselle will accept. He just needs to ask her first.


End file.
